In Gallant Company (14 page)

D'Esterre had been in too many fights of one sort or another to be affected for long. But this time had been different. He thought of Bolitho's face, suddenly so pale beneath the black hair with its unruly lock above one eye. Determined, using every ounce of strength to contain his feelings.

Junior he might be in rank, but D'Esterre had felt in those few moments that he was in the presence of his superior.

LIEUTENANT NEIL CAIRNS
looked up from the small bulkhead desk in response to a knock on his cabin door.

‘Come!'

Bolitho stepped inside, his hat beneath his arm, his features tired.

Cairns gestured to the only other chair. ‘Take those books off there and sit yourself down, man.' He groped amongst piles of papers, lists and scribbled messages and added, ‘There should be some glasses here, too. You look as if you need a drink. I am certain I do. If anyone advises you to take on the role of first lieutenant, I suggest you tell him to go to hell!'

Bolitho sat and loosened his neckcloth. There was the hint of a cool breeze in the cabin, and after hours of walking around New York, and the long pull across the harbour in
Trojan
's launch he was feeling sweaty and weary. He had been sent ashore to try to get some new hands to replace those killed or injured aboard the
Faithful
and later when Sparke's cutter and his men had been blasted to fragments. It all seemed like a vague, distorted dream now.
Three months ago
, and already it was hard to put the order of things together properly. Even the weather made it more obscure. Then it had been miserably cold and bleak, with fierce running seas and the fog which had then seemed like a miracle. Now it was bright sunshine and long periods without any wind at all. The
Trojan
's hull creaked with dryness and her deck seams shone moistly in the glare, clinging to the shoes and to the seamen's bare feet.

Cairns watched him thoughtfully. Bolitho had changed a great deal, he decided. He had returned to New York with the
two prizes a different man. More mature, and lacking the youthful optimism which had marked him out from the others.

The events which had changed him, Sparke's terrible death in particular, had even been noticed by the captain.

Cairns said, ‘Red wine, Dick. Warm, but better than anything else to hand. I bought it from a trader ashore.'

He saw Bolitho tilt back his head, the lock of hair clinging to his forehead and hiding the cruel scar. Despite his service in these waters, Bolitho looked pale, and his grey eyes were like the winter they had long since left behind.

Bolitho knew he was being watched, but he had become used to it. If he had changed, so too had his world. With Sparke dead, the officers had taken another step on promotion's ladder. Bolitho was now the third lieutenant, and the most junior post, then left vacant, had been taken by Midshipman Libby. He was now
Trojan
's acting sixth lieutenant, whether he was able to take his proper examination or not. The age difference between the captain and his lieutenants was startling. Bolitho would not be twenty-one until October, and his juniors were aged from twenty to Libby's mere seventeen years.

It was a well-used system in the larger ships, but Bolitho could find little comfort in his promotion, even though his new duties had kept him busy enough to hold most of the worst memories to the back of his mind.

Cairns said suddenly, ‘The captain wants you to accompany him to the flagship this evening. The admiral is “holding court”, and captains will be expected to produce a likely aide or two.' He refilled the glasses, his features impassive. ‘I have work to do with the damned victualling yard, so I'll not be able to go. Not that I care much for empty conversation when the whole world is falling apart.'

He said it with such bitterness that Bolitho was moved to ask, ‘Is something troubling you?'

Cairns gave a rare smile. ‘Just everything. I am heartily sick of inactivity. Of writing down lists of stores, begging for new cordage and spars, when all those rogues ashore want is for you to pass them a few pieces of gold, damn their eyes!'

Bolitho thought of the two prizes he had brought back to New York. They had been whisked away to the prize court,
sold and recommissioned into the King's service almost before the new ensigns had been hoisted.

Not one man of the
Trojan
's company had been appointed to them, and the lieutenant given command of the
Faithful
had barely been out from England more than a few weeks. It was unfair, to say the least, and it was obviously a sore point with Cairns. In about eighteen months he would be thirty. The war could be over, and he might be thrown on the beach as a half-pay lieutenant. It was not a very enjoyable prospect for a man without means beyond his naval pay.

‘Anyway,' Cairns leaned back and looked at him, ‘the captain has made it plain he'd rather have you with him in his admiral's presence than our tippling second lieutenant!'

Bolitho smiled. It was amazing how Probyn survived. He was fortunate perhaps that after
Trojan
's return from escorting the convoy from Halifax the ship had barely been to sea at all. Two short patrols in support of the Army and a gunnery exercise with the flagship well within sight of New York was the extent of her efforts. A few more storms and Probyn's weakness might have put an end to him.

Bolitho stood up. ‘I'd better get changed then.'

Cairns nodded. ‘You're to meet the captain at the end of the first dog-watch. He'll be taking the barge, so make sure the crew are smart and ready. He's in no mood to suffer slackness, I can tell you.'

Sharp at four bells Captain Pears strode on to the quarterdeck, resplendent in his full-dress uniform and carrying his sword at his side like a pointer. If anything, the glittering gold lace set off against the dark blue coat and white breeches made him appear younger and taller.

Bolitho, also dressed in his best clothes, waited by the entry port, a sword, instead of his usual hanger, slung across his waistcoat on a cross-belt.

He had already examined the barge to ensure it was ready and suitable for
Trojan
's captain. It was a fine-looking boat, with a dark red hull and white painted gunwales. In the sternsheets there were matching red cushions, while across the transom was the ship's name in gilt. Swaying against
Trojan
's side, with the oars tossed in two vertical lines, her crew dressed in red
and white checkered shirts and black tarred hats, the barge looked good enough for an emperor, Bolitho thought.

Cairns hurried to the side and murmured something to the captain. Molesworth, the nervous-looking purser, was waiting by the mizzen, and Bolitho guessed that Cairns was going ashore with him to bolster his dealings with the victuallers, who, like ships' chandlers, thought more of personal profit than patriotism.

Captain D'Esterre snapped, ‘Marines, present
arms!
'

The bayoneted muskets jerked up almost to the canvas awning overhead, and Bolitho momentarily forgot Pears as he recalled the marines on the
Faithful
's deck as they had cut down the boarders with the same crisp precision.

Pears seemed to see Bolitho for the first time. ‘Ah, it
is
you.' He ran his eye over Bolitho's best cocked hat, his white lapels and freshly pressed waistcoat. ‘I thought I had a new officer for a while.'

Bolitho smiled. ‘Thank you, sir.'

Pears nodded. ‘Carry on.'

Bolitho ran down the ladder to the boat, where Hogg, the burly coxswain, stood in readiness, his hat in his hand like a grim-faced mourner.

The pipes trilled and then the barge tilted to Pears' weight as he stepped down and into the sternsheets.

‘Shove off! Out oars!' Hogg was conscious of his captain and watching telescopes from nearby warships. ‘Give way
all!
'

Bolitho sat stiffly with his sword between his knees. He found it impossible to relax when he was with the captain. So he watched
Trojan
instead, seeing her curved tumblehome change shape as the boat swung round and beneath her high stern. He saw the red ensign curling listlessly above the taff rail, the glitter of gilt paint and polished fittings.

Every gunport was open to catch the offshore air, and at each one, withdrawn like a resting beast,
Trojan
's considerable artillery showed a round black muzzle. They too were as clean as D'Esterre's silver buttons.

Bolitho glanced at Pears' grim profile. What news there was of the war was bad. Stalemate at best, real losses too often for comfort. But whatever Pears thought about the situation and the
future he was certainly not going to let down his ship by any sign of slackness.

Beneath her furled sails and crossed yards, shimmering in her own haze of black and buff,
Trojan
was a sight to stir even the most doubting heart.

Pears said suddenly, ‘Have you heard from your father?'

Bolitho replied, ‘Not of late, sir. He is not much for writing.'

Pears looked directly at him. ‘I was sorry to learn of your mother's death. I met her just the once at Weymouth. You were at sea, I believe. A gracious lady. It makes me feel old even to remember her.'

Bolitho looked astern at
Trojan
. So that was part of it, and no wonder. Suppose, just suppose, that
Trojan
had to fight. Really fight with ships of her own size and fire power. He thought of the officers Pears would carry into battle. Probyn, getting more difficult and morose every day. Dalyell, cheerful but barely equipped to take over his new role as fourth lieutenant. And poor Quinn, tight-lipped and in constant pain from his wound, and confined to light duties under the surgeon's attention. Now there was Libby, one more boy in a lieutenant's guise. Pears had good cause to worry about it, he thought. It must be like having a shipload of schoolboys.

‘How many men did you get today?'

Bolitho stared. Pears knew everything. Even about his trip ashore.

‘Four, sir.' It was even worse when you said it aloud.

‘Hmm. We may have better luck when the next convoy arrives.' Pears shifted on the red cushion. ‘Damned knaves. Prize seamen, protected by the East India Company or some bloody government warrant! Hell's teeth, you'd think it was a crime to fight for your country! But I'll get my hands on a few of 'em, exemptions or not.' He chuckled. ‘By the time their lordships hear about it, we'll have changed 'em into King's men!'

Bolitho turned his head as the flagship loomed around another anchored man-of-war.

She was the
Resolute
, a second-rate of some ninety guns, and a veteran of twenty-five years of service. There were several boats
at her booms, and Bolitho guessed it was to be quite a gathering. He looked up at the drooping flag at her mizzen and wondered what their host would be like. Rear-Admiral Graham Coutts, in command of the inshore squadron, had controlled
Trojan
's destiny since her first arrival in New York. Bolitho had never laid eyes on him and was curious to know what he was like. Probably another Pears, he decided. Rocklike, unbreakable.

He shifted his attention to the professional side of their arrival. The marines at the entry port, the gleam of steel, the bustle of blue and white and the faint shout of commands.

Pears was sitting as before, but Bolitho noticed that his strong fingers were opening and closing around the sharkskin grip of his sword, the first sign of agitation he had ever noticed in him.

It was a fine sword and must have cost a small fortune. It was a presentation sword, given to Pears for some past deed of individual courage, or more likely a victory over one of England's enemies.

‘Ready to toss yer oars!' Hogg was leaning on the balls of his feet, his fingers caressing the tiller-bar as he gauged the final approach. ‘Oars
up!
'

As one the blades rose and remained motionless in paired lines, the sea water trickling unheeded on to the knees of the bargemen.

Pears nodded to his crew and then climbed sedately up the side, doffing his hat to the shrill calls and the usual ceremony which greeted every captain.

Bolitho counted seconds and then followed. He was met by a thin-nosed lieutenant with a telescope jammed beneath his arm who looked at him as if he had just emerged from some stale cheese.

‘You are to go aft, sir.' The lieutenant gestured to the poop where Pears, in company with
Resolute
's flag captain, was hurrying towards the shade.

Bolitho paused to look around the quarterdeck. Very like
Trojan
's. The lines of tethered guns, their tackles neatly turned on to cleats or flaked down on the snow-white planking. Seamen going about their work, a midshipman studying an incoming brig through his glass, his lips moving silently as he
read her flag hoist of numbers which would reveal her name and that of her captain.

Down on the gundeck a seaman was standing beside a corporal of marines, while another midshipman was speaking rapidly to a lieutenant. A crime committed? A man about to be taken aft for punishment? Or he might be up for promotion or discharge. It was a familiar scene which could mean so many things.

He sighed. Like the
Trojan
. And yet again, she was completely different.

Bolitho walked slowly beneath the poop and was startled by the sound of music and the muted laughter of men and women. Every screen had been removed and the admiral's quarters had been opened up into one huge cabin. By the open stern windows some violinists were playing with great concentration, and amongst the jostling crowd of sea officers, civilians and several ladies, servants in red jackets carried trays laden with glasses, while others stood at a long table refilling them as fast as they could.

Pears had been swallowed up, and Bolitho nodded to several lieutenants who, like himself, were only here under sufferance.